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Kou looked stunned. "Well—yes!"

Drou blinked. "But . . . that's what I wanted you to say!"

"It was?" He peered over Cordelia's head.

This go-between system may have some real merits. But also its limits. Cordelia rose from between them, and glanced at her chrono. The humor drained from her spirit. "You have a little time yet. You can say a lot in a little time, if you stick to words of one syllable."

Chapter Eighteen

Pre-dawn in the alleys of the caravanserai was not so pitchy-black as night in the mountains. The foggy night sky reflected back a faint amber glow from the surrounding city. The faces of her friends were grey blurs, like the very earliest of ancient photographs; Cordelia tried not to think, Like the faces of the dead.

Lady Vorpatril, cleaned and fed and rested a few hours, was still none too steady, but she could walk on her own. The housewoman had contributed some surprisingly sober clothes for her, a calf-length grey skirt and sweaters against the cold. Koudelka had exchanged all his military gear for loose trousers, old shoes, and a jacket to replace the one that had suffered from its emergency obstetrical use. He carried baby Lord Ivan, now makeshift-diapered and warmly wrapped, completing the picture of a timid little family trying to make it out of town to the wife's parents in the country before the fighting started. Cordelia had seen hundreds of refugees just like them, in passing, on her way into Vorbarr Sultana.

Koudelka inspected his little group, ending with a frowning look at the swordstick in his hand. Even when seen as a mere cane, the satin wood, polished steel ferrule, and inlaid grip did not look very middle-class. Koudelka sighed. "Drou, can you hide this somehow? It's conspicuous as hell with this outfit, and more of a hindrance than a help when I'm trying to carry this baby."

Droushnakovi nodded, and knelt and wrapped the stick in a shirt, and stuffed it into the satchel. Cordelia remembered what had happened the last time Kou had carried that stick down to the caravanserai, and stared nervously into the shadows. "How likely are we to be jumped by someone, at this hour? We don't look rich, certainly."

"Some would kill you for your clothes," said Bothari glumly, "with winter coming on. But it's safer than usual. Vordarian's troops have been sweeping the quarter for 'volunteers,' to help dig those bomb shelters in the city parks."

"I never thought I'd approve of slave labor," Cordelia groaned.

"It's nonsense anyway," Koudelka said. "Tearing up the parks. Even if completed they wouldn't shelter enough people. But it looks impressive, and it sets up Lord Vorkosigan as a threat, in people's minds."

"Besides," Bothari lifted his jacket to reveal the silvered gleam of his nerve disruptor, "this time I've got the right weapon."

This was it, then. Cordelia embraced Alys Vorpatril, who hugged her back, murmuring, "God help you, Cordelia. And God rot Vidal Vordarian in hell."

"Go safely. See you back at Tanery Base, eh?" Cordelia glanced at Koudelka. "Live, and so confound our enemies."

"We'll tr—we will, Milady," said Koudelka. Gravely, he saluted Droushnakovi. There was no irony in the military courtesy, though perhaps a last tinge of envy. She returned him a slow nod of understanding. Neither chose to confuse the moment with further words. The two groups parted in the clammy darkness. Drou watched over her shoulder till Koudelka and Lady Vorpatril turned out of sight, then picked up the pace.

They passed from black alleys to lit streets, from deserted darkness to occasional other human forms, hurrying about early winter morning business. Everybody seemed to cross streets to avoid everybody else, and Cordelia felt a little less noticeable. She stiffened inwardly when a municipal guard groundcar drove slowly past them, but it did not stop.

They paused, across the street, to be certain their target building had been unlocked for the morning. The structure was multi-storied,